


Can You See Me?

by stripyjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blind Character, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mrs. Hudson makes everything okay, lots of sighing, progressive blindness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:52:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripyjumpers/pseuds/stripyjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has to come to terms with the fact that he is losing his sight, and he can't work out when or how to tell Sherlock.</p><p>{originally posted as a response to a prompt on the kinkmeme}</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can You See Me?

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I started this a while ago as a response to a prompt, but never finished it and it'd been bugging me ever since. It has not been beta'd or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine, and an attempt was made to stay in character, but that's always a lot harder than I think. 
> 
> I have little to zero medical knowledge and so all of the information I used for this was gathered from the amount of research I did, which I actually enjoyed because I ended up finding it interesting.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it at least a little, but if not, some suggestions of how I could improve would be helpful :)

The pitter-patter of rain on the long paned windows of Baker Street mimicked the tip-tapping of computer keys as John typed up his blog. He shifted a bit in his tired maroon armchair in an effort to get more comfortable. John grinned at the laptop screen, and continued to type.  
  
 _So in the end, it was the taxidermist's brother who hid the jewel in the stuffed rabbit. You can imagine the look on my face when Sherlock went and said we needed to cut it open. I'll spare you those details._  
  
 _I'm sure Sherlock would comment on this and tell you all the specifics anyway, but he's off on a trip. Got asked to help with some science thing in_  
  
John stopped. He squinted at his screen. The words seemed to blur in and out of focus for about the fifth time that day. He looked back at the keys, which were out of focus too, and rubbed irritably at his eyes.  
  
Setting the laptop aside, John got up and headed to the kitchen sink, where he lightly splashed some water over his face. He dried himself off and padded hopefully back to the sitting room, but was disheartened to find the screen still a bit of a blur.  
  
"Over-forty eyes," John mumbled to himself, "might need glasses," he added grumpily.  
  
Stoically refusing to set up an appointment with a doctor, John settled on resting for a bit. His footfalls were heavy on the steps to his room, and it was only by the time he got there did he realize how tired he was.  
  
The doctor covered himself lazily with the duvet and closed his eyes.

\-------------

Unaware that hours had passed since he’d fallen asleep, John awoke to a light tapping at his bedroom door.  
  
"Hm?" He grunted.  
  
Less than a second later, Sherlock was opening his door without so much as a ‘may I come in?’ John huffed and warily sat up in bed.  
  
"You're home early." the doctor mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.  
  
"You didn't finish typing up the taxidermist case." Sherlock complained.  
  
"And how was Germany?" John quipped.  
  
"Oh, yes, fine. I was just using your laptop, you left your blog open. The entry is unfinished; you stopped mid-sentence. Why?" the detective questioned.  
  
In lieu of answering, John rubbed at his eyes more, and looked up at Sherlock to find him slightly out of focus.  
  
"I was tired, Sherlock."  
  
"That's no excuse. My blogger is slacking, this is unacceptable!" Sherlock chuckled on his way out, "Come John, I came back early so you could make me tea."  
  
"Mm, of course. Lovely," the doctor muttered as he followed his friend downstairs.

By the time John joined Sherlock in the sitting room, the taller man was already back on the laptop. Sherlock sat at the cluttered desk, tapping his foot anxiously as he typed. John stared at Sherlock for a moment, narrowing his eyes at him.  
  
"Oi," he started, when he could finally see what was wrong with the picture, "what're you doing? For the fiftieth time, that's _my_ computer!" John snapped, almost trapping Sherlock's fingers as he slammed the laptop shut.  
  
"John!" Sherlock whined, "I was finishing your blog!"  
  
"Oh, right, 'cause that's just what our readers need, you plowing on about all the things my inferior mind missed."  
  
The detective snarled, whipping his dressing gown angrily around him. "I was simply putting in those details about the dissected rabbit that you chose to leave out for some odd reason."  
  
"Glad I stopped you before you hit publish, then."  
  
"Earl Grey for me, please." Sherlock muttered, already delving into a dusty book.  
  
"I didn't even— fine." John grumbled on his way to the kitchen.  
  
It took several unsettling attempts for John to properly flick the kettle on. He'd reached for it, only to find his grip had been just a tad off. He shook his head derisively, opened the cupboard and stood up on his tippy toes.  
  
John found that he was having the same problem when reaching for a mug. He kept trying to grab it, but his vision was blurring inconsistently. He was so focused on trying to get a mug down that he didn't register Sherlock stepping into the kitchen to stand uncomfortably close behind him.  
  
"Alright there John?"  
  
"Ah! Jesus!" John jumped, effectively knocking a mug right off the shelf and sending it crashing to the floor. John pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, trying to ignore the shattered glass pooling at his feet.  
  
"I'll take that as a no." Sherlock quipped.  
  
Instead of offering to clean up the mess, the detective stretched his taller form right over John and claimed a mug from the shelf. John gripped the counter and bowed his head, trying to gain back some sense of normality.  
  
Surprisingly, Sherlock went about making his own cup of tea as the shorter man sulked at the counter. The detective pointed to the pile of glass still sitting by John's feet on his way into the sitting room.  
  
"Careful on that," he said.  
  
The doctor just let out a low growl and put a hand over his eyes. Sherlock stopped short, and slowly turned to face his friend. He cleared his throat awkwardly.  
  
"This is one of those things isn't it? Are you alright, John?"  
  
The shorter man looked down at the broken glass and shoved some away with his foot. He didn't look up at Sherlock when he spoke.  
  
"Yeah, m'alright. Just knackered, Sherlock, properly knackered."  
  
"I'm no doctor, but I’d perhaps prescribe getting some extra shut-eye."  
  
"Yeah uhm, I'll do that." John murmured quietly as he shuffled out of the kitchen. He kept his gaze on the floor and tried to keep his balance as he walked out. For the first time since he'd moved in, John had to use the railing on the stairs to get up to his room.

\-------------

Lestrade had his arms crossed patiently across his chest, Sally had her hands resting on her hips in anticipation, and Sherlock was crouched next to the body of a recent murder victim, steepling his fingers under his chin, and looking at John.

Everyone in the room was looking to John, who was still giving his medical assessment of the situation. He seemed to be taking longer than usual, and was squinting his eyes desperately at the body of the woman in front of him.

“She’s dead about, I’d say, forty-eight hours?” He stated, moving his gloved hands around the back of her head. “Blunt force trauma to the head, definitely,” he finished.

“And the bruises around her wrists?” Sherlock asked, pointing.

John looked down as if he hadn’t noticed them. “Oh,” he breathed, examining them. “Well, they’re signs of a struggle, certainly.” He concluded, scratching nervously at the sleeve of his jacket. He was still squinting a bit, and was continually trying to rub his eyes with his forearm.

“John,” Lestrade started, moving a bit closer, “you feeling alright?” he asked.

The doctor immediately looked up to find the form of Lestrade outlined in a fuzzy blur. “Yes, fine. Allergies.” He lied.

“You sure? You’re looking a bit peaky—“

“I said it’s fine, Greg.” John bit out, perhaps a bit sharper than he should have.

Lestrade just put his hands up in mock surrender and backed up. “So what do you make of all this then, Sherlock?” He asked, getting back the task at hand.

The detective donned his usual all-knowing grin and delved into a lengthy explanation. John just sat back on his heels and listened intently; trying not to focus on the fact that whole room appeared to be covered in a Gaussian blur.

When it was time for him to help himself up, he swayed a bit on his feet, finding it hard to find purchase on the dusty wooden floors. Lestrade was at his side before he could blink, holding him steady while he righted himself.

“Jesus, John, you said you were alright,” he argued, keeping the grip on the doctor’s elbow.

“I _am_ alright. I don’t need your bloody help,” he snapped, ripping his arm free of the inspector’s hand as if it were poison. He didn’t glance back once at Sherlock or Donovan, who he knew were most likely gaping at him, and made his way out the door.

“What’s the matter with ‘im?” Lestrade asked warily, crossing his arms again.

Sherlock just shrugged as he made his way out. “Allergies.” He settled on.

\-------------

John was leaning up against the cold brick of the flat when Sherlock stepped outside, breathing heavy clouds of smoke into the evening air. The doctor had planned on hailing a cab for he and Sherlock, but decided against it when he realized how incredibly difficult it was to spot a black cab in the almost jet black veil of night. He knew, in the back of his head, an appointment with a doctor was an inevitable necessity, but instead he scolded the logical side of his brain and pushed those thoughts aside.  

Sherlock had already flagged a taxi down by the time John looked up from his musings. He grimaced, pushed himself off of the wall and joined his friend in the cab.

The ride was silent for a beat, and John focused on the soft rumbling noise the car made under his feet. It was strangely calming, and he found himself becoming entranced by the sound. He was wavering on the edge of sleep when Sherlock’s deep baritone snapped the silence in half.

“So. Allergies?” He asked, accusingly.

John cleared his throat. “Yes, dreadful buggers, really.” He sighed.

“I’m not an imbecile, John, in case you’d forgotten.”

The doctor snorted in laughter. “No, obviously,” he said a bit mockingly, “look, I’m just not feeling well, alright? It’s the start of a bug, I’m sure. I just don’t need your concern. I’m a—“

“Yes, I know.”

“And doctors make the worst—“

“I’m aware.” Sherlock interrupted.

“So you understand then?” John asked hopefully, looking to his friend who had thankfully long since come back into focus. His vision seemed to blur at random intervals, and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief that this recent bout of blurriness was over.

“Of course.” The detective replied smoothly.

John nodded his head in thanks and looked back out the window at the lights of the city rolling by.

\-------------

John awoke to the incessant sound of typing infiltrating his ear canals. He groaned groggily and craned his head up a bit, wincing at the crick in his neck that had no doubt formed from falling asleep on the sofa. He sniffed and looked over to his right where he saw Sherlock settled at the table in the sitting room, typing away like a mad man, on John’s laptop, no less.

“Sh’lock,” he mumbled, his voice husky with sleep.

“I had a bit of toast, John; we can skip the nagging this morning.” Sherlock mumbled with his eyes still focused on the computer screen.

“You trying to murder my laptop?” John asked, blinking rapidly and waiting for the fog in his vision to clear. “’Cause you’re punching the keys like you’re mad at the thing,”

Sherlock only grunted in irritation. “John, you’re disrupting my concentration. Though now that you’re awake, remind me, what was the name of the pub we found the suspect in on our last case?”

John closed his eyes as he thought. “Er, The Foolish Fox?” he remembered.

“Yes! Thank you. You can go back to sleep now.”

For a moment, John considered obeying, and kept his eyes closed, not wanting to open them to the new occasionally-blurred world he lived in. He was well aware that over the past week, the bouts of blurriness and occasional spots in his vision had been coming in at shorter intervals. They could have been caused by a number of things, but given his family history, he had a hunch as to what it was. Going to see a doctor would mean setting it in stone, and he wasn’t sure if he was ready to do that yet.

He groaned again when he heard Sherlock continue to massacre the keys on his laptop, and his eyes shot open in realization.

“Wait hold on, why’d you need to know that? Are you—are you typing up the case on my blog?” he asked, his voice high in pitch with concern.

“Hm? Oh, yes. I did the last one as well. You haven’t been updating it—“

“That doesn’t mean you can just hijack my job as blogger! And it’s password prote—oh, forget it. Sherlock, please cease typing whatever scientific drivel you are infecting my blog with.”

The detective chuckled under his breath and didn’t stop in his typing. “I don’t know John; I think I quite like this. Now your readers are getting the _important_ details, like the type of soil that was on the suspect’s shoes, not the name of the cat that was following you around in the victim’s home.”

John made a ‘hmph’ noise and pushed himself up into a sitting position. He rubbed at his stiff neck and stretched his back, eliciting a series of satisfying cracks that he knew always grated on Sherlock’s nerves.

He thought for a minute, realizing he must have fallen asleep to the telly the previous evening, and remembered just how tuckered out he was after they’d returned from Scotland Yard. He was usually at least awake enough to make it to his own bed, but he supposed their last case had just tired him out more than usual.  

John looked to Sherlock and scowled at him as he got up. “I’ll have you know, that cat’s little infatuation with me was incredibly distracting,” he said, snapping the laptop shut in front of his friend, “and her name was Evelyn.”

Sherlock glared at the now empty space in front of him and bit his lip in quiet frustration. “Good,” he said, “perhaps you can take her out on one of those date things some time; I’m sure she’d prove more interesting than your last paramour. What was it, Annabeth? MaryAnn?”

“Ann Marie, you git.” He teased as he shuffled into the kitchen to find something resembling food. To his surprise, Sherlock got up and followed him, his tartan dressing gown waving like a flag in the wind behind him.

John was in the middle of attempting to pour himself a glass of cranberry juice when Sherlock interrupted his focus.

“Why have you stopped updating your blog, John?” the detective asked in a tone rough with curiosity.

The doctor ignored him for a moment in favour of pouring his juice, and ended up missing the glass a bit, spilling the liquid onto the table.

“Oh, bugger,” he cursed under his breath.

“John?” Sherlock asked, in his best, ‘I’m waiting,’ voice.

John busied himself with cleaning up the mess in lieu of answering. When he was settled down at the table with his juice and toast, he cleared his throat and looked toward Sherlock.

“I haven’t stopped, alright? I’ve just been busy. These last two cases took the life out of me and we’ve been swamped at the surgery.”

Sherlock huffed and sat himself down on one the rickety wooden chairs, pushing away some of his science equipment to make room to rest his arms.

“You’ve had exactly four shifts in the past week and a half; that’s not exactly the dictionary definition of ‘swamped,’ as you put it.”

John sighed and bit his toast a bit more aggressively than was necessary. “D’you want the truth, then, Sherlock?” he asked.

“Well it’s either you tell me or I sit here and deduce it because luckily for you my brain has been otherwise occupied these days.”

The doctor nodded and licked his lips. “Look,” he said tiredly, “I’ve just been, out of sorts, lately, okay? I had that spot of a cold that night with Lestrade, and I haven’t been sleeping—“

“Why? Oh, nightmares, never mind. Go on.”

John clenched his teeth and bit back a smart remark. “And it’s been taking a bit of a toll on me, yeah? I’m not you, remember? I can’t just go flying about on three hours sleep like a damned wind-up toy.”

“You certainly can with the right amount of coffee and motivation.” Sherlock smirked.

“You’re missing the point, Sherlock. I’m human, okay? Just remember that whenever you think I’m acting strange.”

“They are strange, aren’t they?” he asked with a distant stare.

John just shook his head and gathered up his dishes. He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to help keep his balance as he got up, though he disguised it as a friendly pat. “Yeah well, don’t forget you’re one of them too," he said.

\-------------

John was halfway through his shift at the surgery when he realized that the blurry haze that had been clouding his peripheral vision was not going away, and his heart sank deep in his chest. He felt a slew of emotions pelted on him at once; worry, apprehension, and a tiny bit of fear that was not at all welcome. He continued to move the cold stethoscope across his patient’s chest, feeling a similar icy sting in the same spot.

John mumbled a halfhearted goodbye to his coworkers at the end of the day. One of them wished him a good weekend, and he prayed that somehow he’d have one.

On his way back to Baker Street, John received a number of texts from Sherlock, urging him to go to the store to pick up a few obscure items. On any given day, John wouldn’t hesitate to rummage through the shelves of Tesco just to keep his seven year old of a flatmate happy. Unfortunately, the haze around the edge of his vision was making it difficult to see out of his peripheral, and he wasn’t too keen on spending his time in the store bumping into shelves and customers.

 _Sorry. Already close to Baker Street. You’ve got legs though._ John texted.

_Your point? SH_

John rolled his eyes.

 _You can bloody well use them and go to the shops yourself._ Satisfied with his answer, John tucked his phone away in his pocket and appreciated the view out his window for the remainder of the ride.

Upon returning to 221B, John breathed a bit in relief at not having to go to the store. He looked around their humble abode and licked his lips. For a moment he just stood and, for what felt like the first time, actually looked at the entire room.

Normally he’d come home from his shift, trudge up the steps, barely spare the flat a glance and get on with the task of making tea or putting away the shopping. It was then that he realized just how little attention he actually paid to his surroundings sometimes. He’d gotten so used to the flat and its quirks and odd furnishings that he barely acknowledged them anymore. Now he examined the room as if it were his first time seeing the place.

“Enjoying the view?” Sherlock’s deep, cutting voice was suddenly right in John’s ear, and he jumped back a good distance in surprise.

“Sherlock!” He berated, rubbing at his ear as if that would make his startled reaction go away. “Jesus Christ, are you trying to give me a coronary? Don’t _do_ that,” he panted, stepping into the flat a bit more.

“As satisfying as your reaction was, that one was not intentional. Also, I don’t understand why you couldn’t go to the shop. I thought you and the chip and PIN machine were on speaking terms again.”

John let out an amused sigh and raked a hand through his hair. “No, we’ve separated now. It’s an on-off thing.”

Sherlock smirked as John toed his shoes off and sank down into the dull green leather of the sofa.

“Ah, the classic love-hate dynamic. Wonderful. I suppose I could just pop out then.” Sherlock said, grabbing his scarf from where it lay on the chair by the door. He tucked it around his neck and continued to stare down at John, who had his head laid back and eyes closed in obvious fatigue.

“Still not sleeping,” The detective concluded, almost to himself.

“Please don’t do that out loud.” John muttered.

“Do what?” Sherlock asked as he pulled on his greatcoat.

John waved a hand dismissively. “The deduction thing. Keep ‘em to yourself right now eh? S’been a long day.”

Sherlock grimaced in irritation. “Just don’t kip out on the sofa again; I don’t want to hear your whining about the state of your neck for the next two days.” He was out the door before John could even retort.

When the chipped green door of the flat slammed shut, John opened his eyes. He surveyed the room again, noting that his field of vision looked as if someone had put a vignette effect over it. He bit the inside of his lip and decided that he couldn’t put off the doctor’s visit any longer. He’d already pushed it back far too much than any intelligent medical man would, and silently berated himself as he set up an appointment.

\-------------

The doctor sitting at the desk in front of John had a head of short brown hair and donned a pair of weathered glasses. He was scribbling something on a legal pad as John licked his lips in apprehension, and tried not to shout at the man to speak up already.

“So,” the doctor finally said, drawing out the word as if he were contemplating its meaning, “you seem to already have quite the understanding of your diagnosis.” He stated, pushing his ever-drooping glasses up further on his nose.

John nodded and cleared his throat. “Well I am a doctor, as you know, and er, my mum had it, actually. She was a bit older than I am now, though, when it started. I was just a kid, y’know, hardly twelve I think.”

“Yes well, it is genetic, of course. I suppose you knew there was always a chance of this?”

John shifted awkwardly in the sad attempt at a comfortable chair and clenched and unclenched his fists.

“Of course, but I just, I just haven’t thought about it in so long. I guess some part of me thought I was immune.” He chuckled dryly.

“Mm, we’ve all got that part hm? I only wish, Dr. Watson, that you’d come to me sooner. You’re already displaying signs of tunnel vision and night blindness.” He said as he checked over his notes.

John tried to hold back a nasty frown in front of the doctor. He knew these things already, of course, as part of his loathing of being a patient was constantly being told things he already knew.

“With all due respect, sir, this is a degenerative condition. I don’t think coming in a week or so earlier would’ve hindered its progression.”

The other doctor simply shuffled his notes and pushed his glasses up on his face again.

“I understand, Dr. Watson, that it must have been difficult for you to accept the prognosis when you realized what it was—“

“Difficult?” John shot back, suddenly taking on a tenser undertone. “I’m going bloody blind, for Christ’s sake!” he practically shouted, his voice breaking a bit at the end when he realized that was the first time he’d officially stated his situation, having not even admitted it to himself. He squeezed his eyes shut and put a palm to his face.

“Dr. Watson—“

“No, no, I’m sorry.” He soothed in a much calmer voice. “It wasn’t right of me to raise my voice, I’m sorry.” He looked to the other doctor again.

“It’s perfectly alright,” the man amended, “as I said, this is a difficult spot for anyone to be in. As a doctor though you also must know that the severity of the vision loss is varied at times. You may retain a small amount of your sight; you may lose all of it. Perhaps you will only be able to distinguish shapes. All in time, doctor.”

John didn’t say anything. Instead he just fiddled with a stray button on his cardigan and swallowed hard.

“In the meanwhile,” the doctor continued, “we’ll be putting you on a regiment of vitamin A supplements. This, along with a healthy diet and sufficient amount of sleep may postpone the retinal dystrophy, even if in the slightest bit.” He said, with an obvious attempt at hopefulness in his voice.

“Yes, of course.” John agreed knowingly.

“And I trust you’ll be in for regular checkups?”

“Definitely,” He stated, staring at the floor.

\-------------

John’s feet felt like they were made of lead as he trudged up the beloved and worn steps of 221B. His head felt heavy as well, like a grey sky full of dark clouds, full to the brim and ready to pour and yet not even a drizzle escaped from their grasp.

He entered the dimly lit sitting room and had to squint a bit to see that yes, Sherlock was indeed reading his old medical textbooks from Uni. He shook his head in annoyance and shoved off his shoes. Before he could so much as ask Sherlock what on earth he was doing with his books, the detective shot his head up and gave John his famous once-over.

“You’re upset. Something’s happened—“

“Stop,” John ordered abruptly. He plopped his jacket down on where he thought the chair was but missed it by a hair, though he didn’t bother to pick the coat up where it landed sadly on the floor. “Just stop, Sherlock. Not tonight, please.” He asked in the most polite voice he could muster. Instead of his usual routine of making tea and updating his blog, John sat down on his armchair and flipped on the telly.

“You are upset, though,” Sherlock continued, “I’m obviously not wrong. And going by the way you tossed your coat I’d say it’s something rather serious, or personal, perhaps. Could it still be the night terrors, the lack of sleep?”

John only covered half of his face with his hand and closed his eyes. “I said not right now, Sherlock. Can you switch off for one night, just for me, please.” His voice was barely a whisper by the time he’d finished.

Sherlock swallowed and bit his tongue, turning back to the books at the table.

“And can I ask what you’re doing with my books? M’not asking you to apologize for rifling through my things again, I’m only, y’know, wondering what you’re up to.”

“It’s a new case; I got a client today.” Sherlock said without facing him.

“Care to elaborate?” John pushed.

“Oh, yes. He claims to be having visions of the future, premonitions, if you will. A right Oracle of Delphi. I, however, suspect a simple case of hallucinations, and I needed to delve further into what medications or conditions might cause such a reaction.”

John pursed his lips in thought, thinking perhaps joining in on another case would be a welcomed distraction from his distress. He knew that his vision was going to do nothing but worsen, and at a faster rate, due to the fact that he was older. And so at that moment, he decided that until it approached the point where he would need assistance, he would try to enjoy his life as normal, or at least as normal as things got around Sherlock. He didn’t want the extra concern, the pity, the classic look of half sympathy, half cluelessness on someone’s face when they heard the news. He didn’t want any of it, at least not yet, and so he got up out of his chair and headed over to his friend.

John leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder at the book, and in a swift movement, turned it a good thirty pages further and pointed to where he landed.

“Here, this chapter, this is where you’ll wanna look.” He told Sherlock.

“Of course. Er, thank you.” The detective mumbled. John sat down adjacent to him and attempted to read the case notes so far. The words were a bit out of focus, and Sherlock’s chicken scratch wasn’t helping, but with a little adjusting and some guesswork, John could make out most of it.

“Oh my god,” he breathed, “this guy says he’d had a vision of a murder and then saw it happen? You’ve got to be kidding. Have the police spoken with him?”

“Yes, they think he’s completely bonkers.”

“I would too, Jesus,” John gaped, reading a bit more. “So that’s why he came to you? And you—how d’you suppose it’s possible? If it even is.”

Sherlock shrugged indifferently as he read. “I’ve got a theory, but I need to meet with someone.”

“Alright. Who?”

“His therapist.”

\-------------

The waiting room in the therapist’s office, with its monochrome colour scheme, fake plants and sad paintings, was beginning to hash up old memories for John. He sat stiffly in one of the chairs, across from Sherlock who was most likely pretending to read a magazine but was actually in his mind palace.

John couldn’t keep his leg from bouncing up and down in apprehension, as it if it were him about to enter the appointment. His mind went back to sitting across from Ella, forcing out the best fake smiles he could come up with. Grimacing, he tossed those thoughts aside and focused on the lanky detective perched in front of him.

John’s tunnel vision had worsened a bit over the past day or so. It was now incredibly difficult for him to see out of his peripheral, but he learned to adjust, turning his head around at just the right angles so he could take everything in. He began to stare a bit at his friend, who had been eyeing the same magazine page for a good thirty minutes by then.

He wanted to memorize Sherlock. Just in case he really did lose the ability to see everything, he wanted to have a good, precise image of his best friend tucked away in his head. And so he sat and tried not to make his observing so obvious as they waited for Sherlock to be called.

John noticed the way Sherlock’s long, spindly fingers would tighten minutely around the magazine when he seemed to be having a thought. He saw the detective actually brush stray strands of his chocolate brown hair away from his face. He ended up becoming a bit entertained with trying to determine the exact shade of blue or green that Sherlock’s eyes were. John was knocked out of his trance when the secretary told them that the therapist was ready to see Sherlock. The taller man plopped his reading material down and strode purposefully down the corridor.

John watched him go, wondering idly if perhaps Sherlock knew about his eye problem the entire time, and was only pitying him by keeping quiet about it. He was hopeful that that wasn’t the case, though, seeing as how the disease had no noticeable effects on the eyes. His stormy, navy blue eyes would remain unchanged, with only the ability to see out of them actually doing the changing.

\-------------

When the investigation-cum-therapy appointment was over, Sherlock and John flagged down a cab and hopped in, grateful for the warmth inside that combatted the chilled air of winter.

“Are you suffering from delusions as well?” Sherlock asked suddenly, pulling his gloves tighter around his hands.

“I’m sorry?” John furrowed his brow in confusion as the cab took off.

“You’ve tripped a total of three times today, two of them being in the last fifteen minutes. I do hate to repeat myself but I will ask again, is there something the matter, John?” Sherlock sounded more irritated than concerned.

“What? No. Isn’t a man allowed to have an off day every now and again?”

“You seem to be having a considerable number of those lately.”

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “So what did you learn from the therapist, then? Is our client really a clairvoyant or a proper nutter?”

“I’ll allow the obvious avoidance of my question in this instance, only because I believe I’ve solved the case.”

“Seriously? How?”

Sherlock smiled quickly, his lip turning up just the slightest bit at his own brilliance.

“It’s child’s play, John. His therapist has gone round the twist; the man is losing his mind and so he decided to make others believe they’re losing theirs as well.”

“Explain?” John asked, taking a bit of a longer glance at his friend as he attempted yet again to decipher the colour of his eyes.

“He’s been giving Terry medication that is causing him to experience vivid hallucinations. Terry then comes to him, tells him of his visions, and, for his own sick amusement, if one of the ‘visions’ strikes his fancy, he goes out and makes it happen. This frightens Terry, obviously, and so he keeps coming to his therapist when no one else will listen. It’s a vicious circle and a cruel trick played by a bored psychiatrist with psychopathic tendencies.” 

“Oh my god, that’s, that is a very elaborate way to convince someone they’re losing their sanity.”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock asked with a smile, as if he were admiring the therapist for his work.

John tried to mull all this over in his head as he looked out the window.

“Wait, so he’s the murderer then? The man you just sat across from, he murdered that man in the alley because Terry had visions of a man being murdered in an alley?”

“Just so,” the taller man agreed.

“What a twisted world we live in,” John mused.

“I know. Isn’t it delightful?”

“Sherlock,” the doctor scolded. “Y’know, I reckon you wouldn’t be too happy if your eyes suddenly decided to play tricks on you, to deceive you.”

“My eyes could never deceive me, only people can, and their sad attempts at doing so do nothing but amuse me.”

 _Your eyes aren’t as faithful as you think_ , John thought. “Right, well. This therapist, you going to turn him in somehow?”

“Of course. I’ll need Lestrade’s help, unfortunately, but we’ll nab him, don’t worry John.”

“Ah yes, how inconvenient that you’ll need the help of the _police_ to convict a murderer. Shame, really.”

Sherlock just laughed under his breath, which made John laugh a bit too, and for that tiny moment he was grateful.

\-------------

It had been almost a fortnight since the conclusion of the supposed clairvoyant case, a blog entry in which John entitled ‘The Adventure of the Pseudo Psychic,’ much to Sherlock’s chagrin. John’s condition had stayed somewhat the same in that time, limited to the slight tunnel vision and loss of coordination that it sometimes caused. He knew that, depending on the patient, the deterioration of sight could accelerate rapidly over just a few weeks, or stretch out to years. Based on his family history, however, he was guessing he had anywhere from a few more weeks to a couple of months before it started to get too bad.

He was becoming a bit of an expert at hiding his symptoms from his flatmate, considering the fact that he experienced many of them on a normal basis anyway. Things like the drowsiness, the irritability and the inability to focus were often caused by the stress of cases, and so they were a lot easier to get by Sherlock.

In that time, John had also continued to attempt to memorize the faces of the people close to him. He would bid Lestrade a tad longer farewell, would hug Mrs. Hudson just a fraction of a second more, and even opted to visit Harry on one weekend. And then there was Sherlock, who he would sometimes stare at for long intervals when the detective was invested in some book, or John’s laptop, more often. He looked at Sherlock the most out of anyone, wanting desperately to keep the image of his eccentric best friend as crisp and fresh in his mind as he could.

“John,” Sherlock said one chilly evening, sitting in his armchair and not even looking up at the doctor.

John cleared his throat quickly and turned his gaze back to the newspaper he was supposedly reading.

“Erm, yeah?”

“As flattered as I am, I would appreciate it if you turned down the level of ogling just a smidge, thanks.” He drawled casually.

John sputtered. “Sorry, ogling?”

“You’re staring at me. You’ve _been_ staring at me. I’m not blind nor am I stupid. I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve by your longing glances but—“

“Excuse me? _Longing_? I’m not some adolescent girl pining after her Romeo from the balcony alright? And has it even occurred to your overinflated ego that I’m not staring at _you_ but just in your direction?”

“Yes, how convenient.”

John tsked and plopped the newspaper down on the side table, pushing himself up angrily from his armchair. “Y’know what? I don’t have to sit here and take this. I’m not a suspect under investigation and I don’t need to sit here while you interrogate me. I’m going out.” He stated, almost missing his jacket as he grabbed for it. Luckily he didn’t think Sherlock saw his little fumble, and he shoved his arms through the sleeves and began to pull his shoes on.

“You should wrap yourself up a bit more. There’s word of snow.” The detective muttered.

“Yes, thank you, Mother Sherlock. I’ll be back later.” He added weakly as he headed out the door.

\-------------

Out of all of John’s symptoms, the one that he couldn’t quite skirt his way around was the difficulty seeing at night. _Nyctalopia_ , he remembered the term.

John narrowed his eyes in frustration as he tried to make his way down the more dimly lit streets surrounding the flat. The areas with the shops and restaurants were obviously easier to navigate, but once the lights faded, so did his ability to make out shapes and figures.

He was squinting at what he thought was a bin, until that ‘bin’ became bigger and began to take on the shape of a person, who he bumped right into, making that at least the third time he’d stumbled into someone that night.

“Oi! Watch it,” the man growled with a gruff voice.

“Sorry, mate, sorry,” John mumbled in apology, making his way past him. He was stopped, however, by the man’s hand grasping onto his sleeve.

“Hey,” the guy ordered, “you got twenty quid?” he asked, almost angrily, as if John was expected to have brought this stranger money.

“What? No, no, I’m not giving you—let go of me, seriously,” John pleaded, still trying to wear his mask of stubborn politeness.

“Seriously,” the man mocked, suddenly dragging John’s smaller form into the nearby alley and shoving him against the rough brick wall. “Gimme all you got,” he demanded.

John cursed under his breath at the fact that there was virtually no one else on the street near him, not to mention the fact that he’d forgotten his wallet.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble, alright? I’ve got no money, I swear to you, now please unhand me before I’m forced to make you.” He said, smoothly adopting his curt military tone.

“Oh is that right? You think you’re a tough little sod, walkin’ round this part of town at night?” John struggled as the man gripped both his arms now with large, rough hands. “Shouldn’t you have a little cub scout holdin’ your hand when you cross the street?” he sneered.

“I’d let go, if I were you.” John warned.

The man said nothing, and for a quick second, John felt relief when one of his arms was released. Unfortunately, with how weak his vision was around the edges, he didn’t see the fist come flying right at his face.

The doctor was hit hard enough to be knocked down to the gritty pavement. He grunted in pain but quickly began trying to stand back up. He only made it about half way before he was tackled to the ground, and received a good number of painful blows to the stomach.

After the wind was thoroughly knocked out of him, John gasped for air, and the large man took the liberty of nicking John’s watch.

The army doctor managed to get in a few jabs then, while the man was distracted with tucking the watch away. His hits weren’t very effective, however, and it only sent the man into another fit of rage as he got up and pelted John in the chest repeatedly with his heavy boot-covered foot.

Luckily, the sound of a small group of people approaching was enough to send the thug scurrying off into the darkened alley, even though the people just walked obliviously by. John lay limp for a moment, still trying to catch his breath.

He perched himself up on his elbows, and spit out the blood that had dripped from his nose and down to his lips. He groaned at his terrible luck and reached a sore arm into his back pocket to grab his phone. He pressed Sherlock’s name and held the mobile to his ear.

“You forgot your wallet.” Sherlock said, before anything else. John spit out more blood.

“I know. Th’s not why’m calling, you berk.” John slurred.

“You’re hurt. I can tell by your breathing and speech pattern. Where are you?” Sherlock asked quickly.

“Mm, er, alleyway down by that shop with the seedy store clerk y’get your cigarettes from.” John closed his eyes and took deep, measured breaths, trying not to focus too much on the pain in his chest.

“I’ll be right there. Bruised ribs?” Sherlock assumed.

“Prick,” John joked, not even surprised that his friend could deduce his injuries just from how he was breathing.

\-------------

When Sherlock helped John back to the flat, he was strangely quiet. He assisted the doctor in cleaning off his face and even fetched him some painkillers and water.

John laid back on the sofa with a cold compress on his midsection and downed the last pill, setting the glass of water on the table next to him. Sherlock came around and tossed the afghan carelessly over John’s legs.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened or shall I do the honours?” Sherlock asked.

John just rubbed tiredly at his eyes and looked up to his friend.

“You do it; I’m a bit put out at the moment.”

The detective practically lit up with joy at the prospect of making his deductions.

“Well you were mugged, obviously. Your watch is gone. You never go anywhere without it; your father got it for you for Christmas two, no, three years ago, and it was stolen tonight. But the real mystery here isn’t how you got roughed up but rather why you couldn’t defend yourself. Clearly this thug wasn’t trying very hard or he would’ve snatched your phone too. But how did he catch you off guard? Normally you’re so—“

“Alright, thank you for that. Forget I asked.” John breathed. “I think I want to sleep now.” He said lazily, already closing his eyes.

Sherlock pouted minutely and tucked the blanket around John better.

\-------------

John frowned at the image of himself that greeted him in the mirror of the bathroom. It was a sad, tired reflection, which was why John loathed mirrors; they could never lie. The bags under his eyes seemed to get more pronounced every day, though that could have very well been his imagination.

 It had been over a month since he’d been mugged in the alleyway, and he’d had to go for two more doctor’s visits, as his deteriorating eyesight was worsening at a faster pace. He could now see a sort of smallish oval of visual information in front of him, the rest clouded up and unclear. And more recently, he was starting to lose his colour perception, feeling as though someone lowered the saturation level on his vision.

He told himself, as he absentmindedly brushed his teeth, that he would have to tell Sherlock and his friends and family very soon, within the week, actually. Sherlock had already begun to suspect something was seriously amiss, and John had practically begged Lestrade to let Sherlock on a case to distract him.

John dressed himself and padded into the sitting room where Sherlock sat, looking sharp in his usual dress shirt and blazer, with his violin perched against his chest. The doctor swore he hadn’t even taken two steps before Sherlock whipped his bow down and used it to point at John’s sock-covered feet.

“One of your socks is black and the other is dark brown.” He said, as if he were making an accusation.

“So, toast this morning?” John deflected.

“Your socks always match. You’re almost obsessive with it, making sure they stay in faithful pairs and folding them neatly in your drawer.”

“You like marmalade, right?” John asked, turning away towards the kitchen.

“Dark brown and black, simple to mix up, but you—“

“They’re bloody socks, Sherlock!” The doctor yelled from the kitchen counter, though he stepped back into the sitting room soon after. “Am I not allowed to make a mistake? _Human_ , remember?” He snapped, shaking his head before Sherlock could answer and retreating back to his tea making.

From the kitchen table, John could hear Sherlock sprouting up from his chair and stomping in to join him.

“But you’re not _just_ a human, you’re John!” the detective reasoned.

“What does that even _mean_?” John shot back. He didn’t even have time to react before Sherlock’s hands were on his upper arms, holding him steady.

“It means that you don’t mix up your socks. It means that you always type up your blog no matter how tired you are. That you don’t trip over yourself and you don’t get mugged in an alley and you don’t fumble and break teacups and for the love of god, John, what on earth is going on with you?” Sherlock let go of the shorter man, and slumped his shoulders uncharacteristically as he caught his breath.

John had to take a moment to right himself as well, and thought hard about how he would go about this.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, okay? I should’ve done this way earlier,” he motioned to the sitting room, “come on, sit down with me, use your inside voice,” he joked, “and I’ll, I’ll tell you everything.”

John went and sat stoically at the desk, resting his arms on the table. Not a moment later, his tall, lanky flatmate joined him, sitting down as quietly as he could manage.

“So, you’re finally going to tell me what’s been ailing you these past few weeks?” Sherlock asked, obviously trying his best to be patient and not jump into a string of deductions.

John nodded, paused for a moment and pursed his lips. “The thing is, I’m going to need a new walking stick.” He stated.

“I beg your pardon? John, your cane was disposed of ages ago, why on earth would you need it now?”

“No, not that type of walking stick, the type that’s used by people who are blind, Sherlock.”

For a solid minute, the flat was more silent than John had ever experienced, and he realized that somehow Sherlock not saying anything at all was an even more terrifying prospect.

“I don’t understand.” He mumbled quietly.

“I should’ve told you sooner.” John admitted. “It was stupid of me, really. Honestly it was more work trying to hide the symptoms from you than actually dealing with them.”

“Symptoms?”

“Retinitis pigmentosa.” John said as explanation. Sherlock’s mouth made a small ‘O’ in realization.

“Retinal dystrophy. Progressive blindness. How did I not see it? _How_?” He asked himself. “Of course everything makes sense now, but why would you hide this from me? You could have put yourself in serious danger, John, are you that dim? No don’t answer that. Have you even been to see a doctor? Never mind of course you have. Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” He demanded, sounding more affected not by John’s condition, but by the fact that his friend hadn’t confided in him.  

John let out a breathless laugh. “Come on Sherlock seriously, you can’t deduce why I might not have wanted you to know?”

“Other than not wanting to be mollycoddled, which I wouldn’t have done, I see no reason.”

“You’re right; I didn’t want anyone’s pity. But you, come on, you have to know.”

“For once in your lifetime John, you have me perplexed and I suggest you take this rare opportunity and use it to your advantage because I doubt it will happen again. Now explain. Please.”

The doctor sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “What would you do with me, Sherlock? A blind doctor, how could I help you? What good would I be on cases? Think about it for Christ’s sake don’t make me keep spelling it out.”

“You think you’ll be useless to me. You assume you will become nothing more than another skull on the mantle. What have I told you about _assuming_ , John?” Sherlock berated.

“That it makes an arse out of you and—“

“Not what I meant.”

John chuckled bitterly. “You know it’s true, though. Look at how I’ve been in the last week; I can barely tell where I’m going half the time. I’m dropping my job at the surgery tomorrow, not that I’ve been working much as of late anyway. I’m going to need to start learning braille, and thinking about other career options—“

“And I can help you with all that.” Sherlock interrupted. John tried not to look as surprised as he felt.

“Really. You’ll help me. How? You’d need to take a break from cases, and you need those to function. And I am not gonna let you treat me like I _am_ a case you can solve, or an experiment you can work on.”

“You’re not. I can buy a truckload of cake and bribe Mycroft into helping. We can work this out, John, but we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Right now I need to know what your vision is like. How are you seeing things?”

The doctor worried his bottom lip before answering. “I’ve got tunnel vision that’s becoming exponentially worse. My perception of colour has already begun to fade. It’s hard to focus. Sometimes things blur in and out.”

“How much of me can you see right now?”

“Mostly your upper body, like your shoulders and head. You’re a tad fuzzy and, I dunno, things just aren’t as bright as they used to be.”

Sherlock nodded grimly. He looked to John who seemed to be miles away already.

“You’re afraid.” He stated.

“Of course I’m bloody afraid, how would you feel? I’m only—“

“Human, I know. As am I,” he paused, “which is why I find myself feeling fearful as well.”

\-------------

The next few weeks seemed a bit unreal. Sherlock didn’t take any cases from clients or Scotland Yard, though John did catch him rifling through cold cases, which he didn’t mind.

John figured Sherlock must have gotten Mycroft his absolute favourite type of cake, because he was swiftly set up with everything he needed to learn braille, along with a collapsible walking stick, and even a very expensive braille display system that could be hooked up to his computer, enabling him to navigate it on his own. The fact that he’d still be able to update his blog and read books online lifted some of the weight off his shoulders.

It had taken about another month before John was no longer able to clearly make out faces. That had been a rough day for everyone at Baker Street, especially Mrs. Hudson, who made John a tray of his favourite jam-filled biscuits, and cooked a wonderful dinner that even Sherlock sat and ate politely.

Breaking the news to the gang at Scotland Yard had been Sherlock’s doing, though in fact he’d only told Lestrade, with instructions to let everyone else know.

John was still able to see certain shapes and figures, and different levels of light, which he was grateful for, but it didn’t take long for him to begin to miss the sights and colours of Baker Street, and the familiar scenes of London floating by in a cab window.

Most days, he sat and practiced braille with Sherlock, or the two of them would go for walks and get takeaway. Some nights they’d just plop down on the sofa and John would listen to the telly while Sherlock did research, on his own laptop.

Sherlock had even started helping out on cases once more, after almost imploding from bouts of boredom. Things were slowly becoming routine again, until one night in particular when Sherlock came in to find John staring hopelessly in the direction of his laptop.

The doctor was settled in his usual spot at the desk, wearing a warm knit jumper, which usually equaled contentment for him, but Sherlock could just tell by the look on his face that something was off.

“John?” he spoke carefully, stepping closer to his friend.

For a split second, Sherlock could have sworn that John made eye contact with him, and a wave of false relief flooded over him when he remembered that John didn’t actually know where he was looking. It was such a cruel thing, really, that John’s eyes remained the same aesthetically; because they often fooled Sherlock into thinking everything was still perfectly normal.

He sat down in an adjacent chair by his flatmate. “You haven’t finished your blog.” He said. “I believe the next thing that happened was that dog following you around, remember? Just like that cat. Evelyn, was it? Bit of an odd name for a cat.”

John said nothing.

“Perhaps you could be an animal whisperer, since they seem to be so drawn to you. John?”

The army doctor took a deep breath and let it out as an exasperated sigh. “I can’t see you, Sherlock.”

“I’m aware.”

“No I mean, I can’t type up this bloody blog.”

“And why not?”

“Because this is a blog about _you_. It’s about what you do, and the things you see and I can’t see the things you do. I don’t know what your face looked like when that dog bit a chunk out of your ankle, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand why I wanted to see your expression so bad.”

“Most likely to laugh at me,” Sherlock smirked. John smiled a bit as well.

“Well yeah, I’m sure it was hilarious. You were _so_ mad, and I missed it." the doctor grinned to himself. "What’m trying to say is, I hate that I can’t see you. I never realized how much I relied on your facial expressions to tell what you were thinking. Sometimes it’s like you’re not even there.”

Sherlock was very quiet after that, needing to think a few things through.

“You are there, aren’t you?” John teased.

“I’m here, John.” The detective reassured. “And I think you _can_ see me.”

“How do you mean?”

“I think there’s another way for you to see me,” He stated.

“I don’t understand.”

Suddenly, John heard Sherlock moving his chair closer, and he could tell that his friend was just about bumping knees with him.

“Take my hand.” Sherlock said, holding it out in front of John.

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

John quickly found purchase on Sherlock’s palm and held onto it. “Now what?” he asked.

“I want you to feel my hand, and tell me what you can deduce about me just by using your sense of touch.”

The doctor licked his lips in thought and figured he may as well give it a try. “Okay, uhm,” he started, feeling the dry, cracked skin of Sherlock’s palm. “well your hands are very dry, that’s really bad, there’s moisturizer for these things y’know,” John noted.

“Yes doctor, and what do my dry hands tell you?”

“You wash your hands a lot, and you go outside often. The cold air dries out your skin and you don’t take care of it.”

“And?”

“And…you probably wash your hands ten times a day ‘cause of all your experimenting, though I’m usually not around for that. And, oh, you’ve got a scar, right underneath your thumb.”

“How could you tell there was a scar?”

“The texture of the skin is different. Is that from your experiments as well?”

“Yes! Very good, John. What else?”

John decided to ignore how odd the situation was and felt around Sherlock’s fingernails, surprised at how smooth and well taken care of they were.

“Your fingernails are groomed really neat, which is odd for a man, but…oh, your violin! You need to keep your nails short for playing violin.”

“Excellent. You see if you didn’t know who I was, you could’ve deduced these things all on your own. Might not come in handy for meeting new people, but it could certainly prove useful for victims at crime scenes.”

John just smiled knowingly and nodded, not taking his hand off of Sherlock’s.

“You know all of these things about me just by my hand,” Sherlock said, squeezing John’s reassuringly, “Now, can you see me, John?”

“Yeah, I can see you. I can see you.”

\-------------

“Well, she didn’t work with her hands, that’s for sure,” John said with confidence as he felt the perfectly manicured fingertips of the recent murder victim, who lay on her side in the middle of a small bedroom. Sherlock was crouched next to John, watching him as he worked, and looking up occasionally to Lestrade, who stood over them.

John was gently feeling around her arms with latex gloved-hands and filing away the information he gathered. He felt the absurd amount of gaudy jewelry on her wrists, her most likely diamond necklace, and the fact that she had no wedding ring. He then felt the material of her clothing, recognizing it as silk, high quality, if he was right. She had earrings in, her hair felt smooth, and most importantly, John could smell a perfume on her that he recognized. He was certain he’d been with at least three women who wore the same smell out on dates. He sat back on his heels and cleared his throat.

“She was a wealthy woman, going by the jewelry and clothing,” John started, “She was single. She wasn’t expecting to be attacked, having probably just gotten done getting ready for a date, but her attacker was certainly prepared, because her neck has been pretty precisely broken. I’d say the killer is most likely whoever she was about to go out on the town with, otherwise you would’ve either received a call from her would-be date, or already interviewed him.” He finished.

“How d’you know she was about to go on a date?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock piped up from his spot. “It’s child’s play, Lestrade. You’ve seen the bathroom. Her hair and makeup things were scattered everywhere.”

“So were my ex-wife’s, all the time,” Greg rebutted.

“There were fresh lipstick and foundation stains on the mirror. Open your eyes, inspector.”

“And her perfume,” John added, “I’m positive it’s a standard for women to wear out on dates.”

“Yes, her perfume, Lestrade. John can’t even see the victim and he’s miles ahead of you lot. As always I greatly fear where Scotland Yard would be without us.”

John was only half listening to the rest of the detective’s slew of deductions, as he was too busy smirking at the fact that Sherlock had actually said ‘us.’

\-------------

On the cab ride back to Baker Street, John relaxed into the familiar sound of the car rumbling against the gravel. He could hear the hum of the engine, could hear Sherlock tapping ever so slightly on his leg, and could smell the odd scents that lingered in from outside. The squeal of the tires, the tired sighs from his friend, he could take it all in and form a picture from it in his head.

Without even thinking about it, John put his hand in the middle of the seat in a silent request. Ever since the night that Sherlock showed John how he could use his sense of touch, holding Sherlock’s hand had become a sort of way of grounding him, bringing him back down to earth, reminding him that he would never truly not be able to see.

Sherlock didn’t spare a second thought as he wrapped his long, cold fingers around John’s smaller warm ones.

 _I can see you._ John thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Hand holding is my favorite :3 Along with the sounds of car rides, if that wasn't apparent. I'm not sure exactly how I feel about this one but I just needed to finish it, hopefully you guys can tell me what you thought. *shuffles back under my blanket*


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